The Light of Endura

by Scott Zamek

  “One more day to the pass,” said Eyebold. He held his hands to the fire and chewed a morsel of venison, then pointed to the horizon at a solid wall of brown ridges. “Over those mountains.”

  “No fish, no game, no birds,” grumbled Ethreal, as she scanned the hills with her bow in hand. “Not even any plants.”

  Aerol crouched down by the fire and looked closely at his friend. “Stay your bow—at least we have full canteens. We will have to hunt as we travel onward.”

  “We will not have time to hunt once we approach the pass,” cautioned Eyebold. “It is sure to be held by the enemy.”

  The Far Rider gazed up at the black and gray sky, then looked hard at the mountains to the east. “First we cross the pass, then we worry about food.” He produced the map from the folds of his shirt and laid it before the fire, motioning to Filby. “Come, perhaps some new information will hasten to our aid.”

  Filby knelt down for a moment, but did not draw. “There’s nothing.” He knelt closer, thinking perhaps he missed something, or another rune would suddenly appear to make their journey more clear. He watched for a sign, any sign, but none held forth.

  “Do not lose hope,” said Aerol, noticing Filby’s slumped shoulders. “If Eyebold is correct, we must travel beyond the mountains, closer to the Light of Endura, before the map will reveal all of its secrets.”

  Filby looked at the map, at the vast empty space beyond the Far Mountains. “What does it mean?” he asked, then hesitated, wondering if the others would think the question to be foolish. “The word, I mean—Endura?”

  Eyebold put his hand on his chin and worked his beard. “It is the tongue of the Ancients—it means ‘the living’ . . . I think.”

  “Immortal,” said Aerol. “The Immortal Light.”

  Filby gazed into the fire and watched a shadow flicker and weave behind a gray boulder. “Then . . . if it cannot die—why does the land darken?”

  “We shall see,” said Aerol, as he folded up the map. He retrieved his cloak from the spit and threw it around his shoulders, then turned and walked alone toward the rising mountains.

  The others slowly grabbed their cloaks from the spit, one by one, then followed Aerol into the waiting hills. Eyebold strode to the fore and led the way along a rocky path, until the route became blocked by a ridge angling upward. The Watcher lifted his eyes, gazed into the vacant distance that was once space and stars, but what he saw there was a blackened sky stretching down to meet them—ashen clouds blistering in a seat of untold darkness. A thin goat track switched back on itself, up toward the absent heavens, and Eyebold feared to climb toward the summit, for he knew what awaited in the lands ahead. Yet he climbed, leading the way into the bare cliffs, sharp rocks and loose scree clattering down to the dim valley below.

  Ever higher the mountains rose, dull clouds lowering like a cauldron billowing downward toward the barren earth. Winter air from the low hills became the frigid wind of unprotected peaks, briefly casting clouds aside as the bleary sun wrought twisted shapes upon the land, until Eyebold at last broke onto the crest of the ridge. A cold valley lay before them, far below, tainted by patches of brown snow and withered grass bending in the straight north wind.

  “There!” said Eyebold, pointing to the horizon. “The Pass of Frozen Spires!”

  An unbroken line of dim mountains formed at the edge of the valley, still far away to the east where black smoke rose like pillars at the edge of the earth. A few white peaks could barely be made out behind the simmering air, beyond the dour valley that lay before them, and they could all see two of the peaks jutting through the top of the clouds like masts rising from murky ocean waves. Eyebold’s bearskins flapped in the stinging wind atop the unprotected ridge. He held his arm over the east and shouted above the wind. “We must cross between those two peaks, and hope the enemy has not thought to defend the pass with any might.”

  Filby looked into the distance at the vague horizon. His light cloak felt thin and feeble as he crossed his arms over his chest. “How far is it?”

  “Across the valley is easier going . . . we can make the pass by tomorrow morning if we travel through the night.” Eyebold wound his furs tight around his shoulders and began climbing down into the valley. Ethreal followed, light and quick and never hesitating, then Aerol strode ahead, tall and strong and never showing anything but courage.

  Filby was left looking into the cheerless, gray expanse. He thought of Mackleroy’s Tavern on the main road to Meadowkeep, and the warm hearth Mackleroy used to keep, and the Friday dinners they served with ale and fish from the Sanguine Sea. He remembered his cabin and baker Doloby’s olive bread, taken with a sudden wish to be back by his warm fire. Even the dark figures that broke into his cabin that night long ago, when he fled from his farm, seemed safer than the dangers that lay across the valley to the east. But then he remembered the nights alone in the forest when Ethreal was injured, and it gave him courage. He raised the hood of his cloak against the cold, took a step forward, then followed the others down the steep ridge.

  A steady drizzle added to the misery of the day. The temperature was not quite low enough to freeze the air, though patches of white clung to low furrows in the valley—yet the frigid rain seemed more of a burden than snow. It soaked through cloaks and furs, leaching down to bare skin and touching with an icy sting wherever it passed through. The valley floor was hard underfoot. Dark gray clouds crept down from the north like reaching fingers, descending the day into a grim twilight, while Eyebold’s heavy furs gained a thin shimmer as he strode on toward the Frozen Spires. They feared no troggs or wraith in the open valley, for the land was surrounded by high mountains and served no roads or thoroughfares. Only a narrow goat track ran onward like a thin ribbon arching over the stiff ground to the far side of sight.

  The angled mountains loomed in a dark row ahead, at places showing as ridges and high pinnacles covered with snow; at places nothing but rounded foothills backed by waxen light from afar. Filby raised his eyes to the east and could see beyond the cliffs, beyond to where two white peaks were half lost in a leaden sky. None could see the sun; dusk came down with the day turning weak and opaque, a grasping cold congealing breath into the sharpening night. They walked east into darkness. The hidden moon wrestled to be seen behind a few dreary clouds, and a thin blanket of snow crunched underfoot, but all else became black and motionless as if peering into an endless abyss. Eyebold focused on the few feet directly ahead, where the feeble light of the moon showed a slim glimpse of the path to come.

  Filby could scarcely see the shadowy frame of Ethreal just in front, a barely perceptible tinge of snow on her shoulders reflecting in the night, and he wondered at the uselessness of his cloak. Good for rain, perhaps, but it did nothing to keep out the cold. He was hungry but they did not stop, nor did they eat. Aerol would not allow a fire, thinking it might be visible to any troops guarding the pass. The night became a cold and weary trudge across a cold and invisible land as they made ever east, hour upon hour, deeper and deeper into the widening night. Filby was grateful when the first vaporous light gave rise to red clouds in the east. He could already see: they stood at the base of a high ridge on the east end of the valley, now visible in the morning light as an impassable barrier of rising snow and ice. The Frozen Spires, hidden behind the imminent cliffs, could no longer be seen.

  “What now?” Filby looked up at the mountain before them, a sheer wall rising into the dim day like a great black shroud extending beyond sight through the clouds. But his words fell weak and shallow, as if muted by thick air, and he wondered if anyone heard.

  “Up,” answered Eyebold grimly. He had heard, and the Watcher peered into the impenetrable sky, along the glassy black heights without end, then reached up and began the ascent, hand over hand. He knew the way. He had traveled to the hidden pass in brighter times. But this time the day did not come, or what day did show itself was a filtered and sickly one, heavy with fog and something unseen and unidentifiable. A linge
ring dread, a timeless evil drenched the air and the cliffs—whispered from the heart of the mountain itself. Eyebold could feel it deep in his core, a rising fear infused into the very land, but still he climbed—intent on the rocks ahead, slowly, painstakingly, grasping handholds and footholds on the shadowy rocks. Most of the surface was coated with a thin film of ice, making for slow progress, and then looking up at the folding gray clouds obscuring the mountaintop, Eyebold felt like a lonely spec on a giant wall of icy crags and sharp crevasses. The Watcher had warned the others about the climb, for he knew it was the only way to approach the pass unseen. A valley did sweep in from the north, the usual route to the Frozen Spires, but it was sure to be guarded and crawling with troggs.

  They reached the top engulfed in dense fumes, as if the wretched sky had lowered to ground and cast its ashen clouds upon the earth. Eyebold strained his eyes through veils of choking mist, but nothing could be seen surrounding the mountaintop; the vaporous air rose up like steam, thick, with substance, obscuring everything to the east.

  “There is a valley directly below us that leads up to the pass,” whispered the Watcher, as he crouched down behind a rock ledge and motioned for the others to follow. “If someone guards the pass, we will be heard.” They hunched low and gazed through the lowering cloud. A small valley appeared in glimpses, through a smoky curtain opening and closing and curling with the moving atmosphere. The two white pinnacles wavered in and out of visibility, then a thin breeze cleared the air slightly, and through the cruel and brooding fog they could see a gathering of forces in the valley below.

  “I count ten halfwraith,” whispered Aerol.

  “And at least that many troggs,” said Ethreal.

  Eyebold sat with his back to the rock ledge. “That’s as good as its going to get along these Far Mountains. The passes to the south, where I led the earlier expeditions, were held by hundreds. If we make it through, we make it through here.”

  Filby peeked over the ledge and saw at least a dozen vague figures on horseback, wavering behind a veil of haze and putrid air. A canyon wall stood at the opposite side of the small valley, the Frozen Spires still miles to the east. “Where’s the pass?”

  Eyebold turned toward the valley and rose his head above the rock ledge. “That crack,” and the Watcher pointed to a thin opening in the canyon wall no more than four feet wide. “That fissure in the wall. A path lies through there and leads upward yet another two leagues before it passes between the Frozen Spires and into the Beyond Lands.”

  “We will have to fight our way through,” conceded Aerol. “It is the only option left to us.”

  Filby lowered his head and slid down low behind the ledge. “Four against twenty?”

  “Our food is gone, and our water nearly.” Aerol pressed his back against the wall and studied his companions closely. “We have not slept in days, and the longer we wait, the weaker we become. The enemy suffers no such shortages. The time is now—we must hope to find supplies beyond the mountains.”

  “If we move in closer,” said Ethreal, “I can thin them out with the bow. Or we could wait for darkness and better our chances.”

  “We cannot risk a nightwraith,” insisted Aerol. “It must be during the day.

  Ethreal turned Filby to the side, reached into his backpack, and pulled out a fistful of arrows. “Then let it be now—before any more forces gather.”

  “I agree,” said Eyebold. “I have never seen a pass held that thinly. And we have cover of some mist.” He turned to Ethreal and studied her bow. “How close do you have to get?”

  Ethreal raised her eyes over the ledge and scanned the valley ahead. A row of large boulders, remnants of a landslide, were strewn at the base of the valley directly below, and Ethreal pointed. “Behind those rocks—I will fire from there while you make for the pass.”

  “We could still use your sword.” Aerol looked to the hidden sky. The sun was rising far off and unseen behind the Frozen Spires, and the icy morning became less frigid. A thin light began to turn the colorless day into a bleak and dim afternoon, but Aerol’s white breath still rose as he spoke.

  “As soon as you engage, I will follow,” answered Ethreal, proudly and without hesitation.

  Aerol stared at the others and they returned his gaze and nodded. “Then it begins,” said the Far Rider. They crept down along the exposed side of the ridge under cover of the passing fog and crouched behind the boulders at the edge of the valley. Ethreal set an arrow to string, but kept her bow slack.

  “Wait for the mist to settle and thicken,” whispered Aerol.

  They waited breathless minutes, until the light wind slackened and the dim fumes of the mountain came together in dense patches.

  “Now!” called Aerol in an urgent whisper, and he crept out from behind the rocks, still bent at the waist in a half-crouch, then moved forward toward the pass. Eyebold and Filby followed. Ethreal craned her neck around the boulder, pressing her fingers against the arrow.

  Aerol’s slow trot became a run as he sped faster toward the halfwraith. Ethreal tightened her bow, let loose, and a rider fell from his horse. Three more times, and three more halfwraith fell, and at the same moment Aerol ran full on into the heart of the enemy. The halfwraith were taken off guard, and three fell to Aerol’s blade before they turned to fight. Three more died at the edge of Eyebold’s massive broadsword, and Filby felled one in the confusion.

  The ten troggs joined the melee, and battle became chaos in a whirlwind of arrow and steel. Ethreal chose her shots carefully now in the confusion, brought down two more riders from their mounts, then drew her sword and charged into the fray. She took two troggs in her dash through the lines, then paused at the rising sound of trumpets. Looking to the north, she saw a heavy line of cavalry, fifty halfwraith, charging toward the battle. Foe and friend alike turned to behold the onslaught, and in the pause Ethreal could see the bloodied swords; the pulsing breath of her exhausted companions. She was fresh to the attack, but they were spent. Ethreal spun and took two more troggs before the fifty mounted halfwraith joined the fight.

  Aerol motioned to the others and they formed a circle, backs to each other and facing the four points of the compass. The enemy cavalry crashed down upon their defense. Aerol gave back and the circle tightened. Then Ethreal looked to the sound of pounding drums from the hills, only to see a towering mountain ogre crashing down from the foothills toward the fray. Another twenty troggs followed behind, swords drawn high, swelling the enemy ranks. The four kept their backs to each other, and the circle grew tighter and tighter until their backs were touching. And then a nightwraith descended upon them and joined the circling hoards, and another ogre, and Aerol raised his sword and cried, “death is come, pray to your gods if it gives you comfort!”

  Filby raised his sword against the onslaught and prepared to die. Slowly, far off in the distance and on the wind, amidst the clang of steel and beating hooves of angry cavalry, Filby thought he could hear the far-off sound of rumbling thunder. Suddenly and without explanation, four troggs fell dead in front of him. And again, in the distance, a wavering voice filtered in upon the wind. “Ready . . .” Then the same wind faded the words into nothingness, and Filby strained to hear. “Aim . . .” The pounding of hooves drowned the eerie voices, and Filby’s sword dripped with blood, but he still listened for the dim cry. “Fire!” And the sound of distant thunder came again, and a cloud of smoke along the valley, and five halfwraith fell from their horses.

  Then Filby could see clearly: a line of soldiers rushing toward the battle. They paused in two ranks and dropped down to their knees and the same cry rose on the wind. “Ready . . . aim . . . fire!” A plume of smoke engulfed the soldiers as six troggs fell to the ground. The nightwraith fled with a piercing cry, and an ogre stumbled to one knee, a giant hole pierced through his middle. Ethreal saw the confused enemy and raised her sword, then swept it through the air again and again without pause. Eyebold brought his broadsword to bear, and Aerol advanced forward,
sword held high.

  The enemy began to break and scatter. The soldiers ran into the fray. One stopped in front of Ethreal, breathless. She looked at him in astonishment. “Sergeant Broadhurst! Wha–”

  “At your service mum,” and he snapped his back straight for a quick moment, saluted, then rushed by to join the battle.

  Filby watched as the enemy gathered again and turned to. Captain Bressard formed ranks to face them, and shouted. “Reload!” Two men fumbled with a metal pipe, nothing but a hand-forged metal tube a mere two feet long and six inches wide. But when they planted the sealed end into the ground, and lit a match, it gave off a terrible thunder and many of the enemy fell to the ground.

  Friend and foe faced each other across a line of battle. Lieutenant Lockley held a polished sword high in the air and swung it down sharply. A volley of thunder followed.

  “We cannot hold this position!” Captain Bressard called out to Aerol. “We must fall back!” The captain ordered a retreat, and his soldiers fought a regimented withdrawal from the valley; one rank of soldiers held to a knee and fired, while the rest fell back, then a second rank took a similar position while the first rank retreated and reloaded. Aerol and the others fled along with the soldiers, along the valley floor to the north, then into a dead-end canyon hidden within the cliffs of the Far Mountains. The enemy followed, but the mouth of the canyon was thin and easily defended. The wraith could not enter without encountering withering musket fire.

  Captain Bressard left half of his men to guard the mouth of the canyon, then led the group inside. Aerol brought up the rear, and he could see that the soldiers had occupied the canyon for some time. Tents were set up along the ridge, and a well-established fire pit held a sturdy spit and many pots and pans. It was also clear that the canyon remained impenetrable. The walls were nearly vertical, rising to a height of one hundred feet; the way they entered was the only access. The canyon was a dead end.